


The North

by Subtle_Shenanigans



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Accents, Book 1: The Beginning Season, Book 2: In A Flurry Of Snow, Book 3: The War Of The North, Death, Fighting, Freindship, Gen, Good guys are good, Mossflower Woods, Platonic Relationships, Poetry, Redwall Abbey, Rillbrook The Wanderer descendant, Salamandastron (mentioned), Seasons turning, Songs, Superstition, The Northlands, Violence, good stoat, like a lot of them, not all vermin are bad, plottwists, refernces to previous books, refrenced cannibalism, travellers, villains are villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Shenanigans/pseuds/Subtle_Shenanigans
Summary: "The snow, it driftsThe snow, it falls-Beware Winter's gripAround Redwall!!!"Far away, in the lands of the far North, a barbaric conqueror catches wind of a beautiful palace amidst warm, green country: The Abbey of Redwall.But as the fates would have it, a young otter and stoat reach the Abbey just as a message of warning comes - the conqueror must be faced before he reaches even the fringes Mossflower country, or else all shall be lost.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hoooooh-boy. 
> 
> Here it is.
> 
> This is one of my prides I've been wanting to finish for awhile.
> 
> These first two chapters are BETA'D, but they are also over a year old and the only chapters I have done. Hopefully I'll update soon.
> 
> Just. . .Brian Jacques is my favourite author, and his style is very hard. Obviously this will be unique to my own voice but I'll be trying to capture that special Redwall feeling. So patience, please.

_The North_

by

Subtle Shenanigans

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

I don't know how that rudder-tailed, cheeky, traveler convinced me to do this, but he did.

Now I'm not the best writer, nor storyteller, but my friend said that  _someone_  needed to tell what happened, and after all my improvement under Sister Pearwin's teachings, he insisted it be me. Of course the more I protested, the more he insisted.

"Why not you?" "Because I always write anyway. 'Sides, I'm not the only one who was there." "Then why daen't you ask someone who was?" "I  _am._ "

See what I mean.

So here I am, ink turnin' my paws blue, not sure how to start this all. I'm surprised I'm allowed to write – Merrin thought I'd make it unreadable 'cause of my accent. Pfft, I think  _he_  talks funny. Stupid mouse.

I guess I'll just start afore this page is full of complainin'. Plus, I don't want to be stuck in this olde gatehouse if it rains. Spring can be like that, but at least it's not like that one winter. Snow an' white everywhere. I remember the events well – they were only a few seasons ago – but I especially remember the cold. Icy, bitin' so far into your fur that they reached through the skin an' froze the bone. I guess I'll start there, where it all began, in the vicious Northlands…


	2. Book 1: The Beginning Season; Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All OCs belong to me, and the _Redwall_ universe to Sir Brian Jacques.
> 
> This is basically a tribute to the series.

 

* * *

Book 1:  _The Beginning Season_

Chapter 1

* * *

Alaerr Starrfisher was a traveler born; a vagabond leaf on ever-changing winds, all the seasons of his young life.

He was an otter like most, though not like most: He wasn't as tall as some, but had the average short brown fur and storm-tossed appearance. You couldn't tell if he came from river or sea, either, but you could tell that he was a well-educated beast. He spoke clearly, with little to none of the rough accent most travellers had.

He was also well dressed, even if his clothes were a little worn, with a tan tunic trimmed with brown and a pale, sand-yellow starfish (his namesake) pinned on the upper left near his shoulder. He had eyes the same color as the starfish, that glowed brightly with adventure and kindness. Because of his young age and mannered demeanor, a handful of badbeasts had made the mistake of thinking him a helpless whelp. They had been sorely mistaken.

He walked jauntily, a hop in his step and spring-season always in his heart. Leaning against his shoulder like a spear was a long, yew wood staff. It had a section towards the end and middle shaven down, one for the string to attach and the other for the paw to grip. The wire was strong fishing wire and it had a paw-made hook that was carefully attached to the the wood so that it wouldn't catch or drag. It was a very strange fishing pole. But it had another purpose.

Alaerr stopped at a stream to drink, pale yellow eyes flickering this way and that. It was cool and shady in Mossflower, light flittering through to show little dust motes that spun lazily in their drafts. A bird twittered, and was answered by another. It was peaceful.

Thirst quenched, he got up slightly, changing to a kneeling position. He carefully picked up his fishing pole from where he left it, bending it silently and tying a loop of string above the hook to the shaven end. It roughly resembled a longbow as he pulled it back with an arrow drawn from the birch-bark quiver on his back. It was a simple thing, with yellow feather flights that had black tips. He stood up, drawing the arrow all the way on the string.

"Whoever's hidin', come on out please - I don't want to shoot some innocent beast."

The bushes on the opposite bank quivered, and a female mousemaid hopped out. She was almost out of dibbunhood, but not yet a teen-aged creature. She wore a plain dress stitched with daisies and had soft grayish fur. She eyed Alaerr curiously.

Seeing that she was no threat, he relaxed his stance and unstrung the bow back into a fishing pole. Smiling and bowing elegantly, he greeted her, "Good morn to ye. I'm Alaerr Starrfisher. Who are you? An' where's your parents, miss?"

She wrinkled a dainty nose. "I'm norra 'mizz'. Youse can calls me Mikk." She curtsied, then bellowed over her shoulder like thunder, "Mammy! Dadee! We's got us a guest!"

Two other rye-colored mice came out of the foliage; the father a sturdy beast with an old straw hat, and the mother plump with a vetch-flower apron who rushed forward, glaring at Alaerr while hugging her daughter protectively.

"An' who be's this raggamuffin? Mikk, m'dear, what'd we say 'bout strangerbeasts?"

Her husband looked skyward in exasperation, his hat almost sliding off his head. "Nello, dearest, 'E's on th' other side o' the stream and 'e don't seem like much harm t'me. Ain't that right, otter?"

Alaerr's eyes were comically wide after the fierce mouse mother's glare, but he composed himself and nodded. "Aye, sir. I'm Alaerr Starrfisher. Nice to meetcha."

The father mouse found this hilarious, as he laughed to his wife, "Hear 'im? Talks mighty fancy, 'e does - an' 'e called me 'sir'! Haha!" He kept laughing uproariously, gaining a smile from his wife. When it had dissolved into sniggers, then disappeared, he went on, saying, "Name's Lermen, young sir. Yew met th' wife, Nello, and I'm sure me daughter Mikk an' ye swapped greetin's."

Alaerr nodded again. "Aye; she snuck up on me well - thought some vermin was going to try an' ambush me." Seeing that the mousewife, Nello, had calmed down a bit, he gave her a gallant bow. "I'm sorry if'n I scared you or your daughter marm."

Nello looked away, flustered. "I'm no marm, yer fancy beast. An' I'm sure ye meant no harm."

After some insistence (especially on Mikk's part), they got Alaerr to agree to having supper with them. Alaerr jumped into the stream and swam over; he was as powerful and graceful as a swan, and when he popped up on the opposite bank smoothly, he earned a few surprised squeaks. He scrambled up onto the bank, shaking his wet fur, then followed them to their home.

It wasn't too far, and was quite humble: A little shack, shored up against a great beech tree. It had a little overhang above the door that Alaerr (who was a good bit taller than the mice) had to duck under, lest he hit his head. Mikk showed him around the little house, brimming with excitement when she showed him the meek furnishings and paw-stitched rugs. They exited, greeted with the late summer day leaning towards sunset, the sky painted with an array of berry-colours. Nello cooked outside, stirring over a large pot of soup resting on a fire ("Any season is good fer soup!" she had insisted.)

Finally it was served up in little oak-wood bowls, and Alaerr was full of surprised delight at the contents: savoury leek and mushroom soup, with soft carrots and turnips, special seasonings, and some rye bread to dunk. The otter enjoyed it so much that he asked for a refill, and then some. Lermen looked at him wide-eyed as he finished his fourth bowl.

"Well now, I didn' know a streamdog could shove 'way sumuch soup!"

His daughter elbowed him. "That's cos you'm 'aven't met a great warrior otterbeast like dis!"

Alaerr wiped his whiskers with the back of his paw. "Thank you very much - 'tis very good soup. As to being a 'great warrior', as you put it, I'm afraid not. I'm more of a traveller. I've only fought a pawful of badbeasts in my life."

Lermen nodded sagely. "Yis, yis. Ye carry yer weapon more like a tool - an' a likkle book is stickin' outta yer 'aveysack."

Surprised and a bit scared for his belongings, Alaerr turned around to look at his bag (which was next to him on the ground) and saw no signs of his book sticking out. When he turned back around, he saw Lermen grinning like a duck at a banquet; Alaerr then realized that he had been tricked. Seeing no harm in it, he glared playfully, commenting, "You sure are the crafty beast, aren't you, Sir?"

Lermen's eyes twinkled. "Nay. Only sumuch as ye're a warrior beast. 'Sides; any'll tell ye what's asked, long as 'tis asked right."

He was suddenly rubbing his head, a sore lump beginning to swell on it. Nello stood behind him, brandishing her ladle like a club. "Unless it com's ta yew an' yer chores! There's no right way then, iz there?"

Still rubbing his head ruefully, Lermen looked at her pleadingly. "Y'know I loves yew, dearest, an' I knows I gots a tricky mem'ry, but was there any cause fer that?"

"Tricky mem'ry my tail! Now I 'spects the supper dishes ta be taken care of…"

Alaerr watched with a wry smile and good humor alight in his eyes as the mouse father hurried to do as bidden, arguing with his wife the whole time. Mikk giggled next to him. After a while of Nello's nagging, and Lermen's laggardly cleaning, they all settled down for the night, just as the first stars began to twinkle in the dark, vast skies.

* * *

* * *

 

It was another lovely day in the Abbey of Redwall; dainty butterflies hovered in the warm drifts, breezes heated by the sun, which shone brightly on the day, but not yet mercilessly. Zillan took a deep breath, exhaling contentedly. What a lovely day.

"Git back 'ere!"

Or not.

He had barely turned around when a small beast smacked into him, her "Soree!" clashing with his "oomf!" Although it was like a minnow ramming a pike, it still caught him by surprise.

Before she could scramble away, Zillan hefted her up, asking, "What in the name o' seasons is goin' on, Miz Tiggan?"

The little shrewmaid - a Dibbun (the term used for all abbeybabes) - looked up at him innocently with wide, brown eyes. Before she could claim said innocence, a bankvole Dibbun came running up, covered tail to whiskers in splotchy blue ink. It was then the gatekeeper saw similar ink on Tiggan's paws.

The bankvole immediately tried to climb Zillan, and Tiggan tried to get further away by leaning out dangerously on the black-furred otter's arm, which he had instinctively stretched out. Standing on one footpaw, and keeping the bankvole at bay on the very same appendage, he yelled over their shouts, "Calm down ye two! What's gotten into ye? Hey! Ow! Thrit, no scratchin! Ouch! Leggo of my ear, Tiggan!"

Luckily, a savior came in the form of a gray-furred mouse name Sister Pearwin. They all paused when they saw her.

The youngish mouse was Abbey Recorder and Librarian, but also taught the Dibbuns in Abbey School. She was kind but also fairly strict, and wouldn't tolerate anything that interrupted education. She marched up to them, obviously irritated, and it was then that Zillan recalled that there was a class that day. He shuddered at her dangerous look.

"Mister Thrit, Miss Tiggan," she stated darkly, a great contrast to the hilariously posed otter and Dibbuns. "Both of ye are to come with me this instant and report before the Abbot!"

Feeling a little sympathy for them, (and seeing their horrified looks), he carefully pulled the two Dibbuns off him. Turning to the Sister, he said, "Now hold on a tick, Sister. Why don't ye tell me what happened, an' I'll help you sort it out?"

She huffed, but complied. "I was goin' over the history of Sir Martin when he saved Mossflower from Tsarmina, when this little sir," at this, she sent a stern look to Thrit, then continued, "Said somethin' that I didn't catch. Apparently Miss Tiggan did, because she," she paused once again, pointing at the shrewmaid, "Lost 'er temper and decided to dump a whole, fresh inkwell on top of him! What is up with young ones these days? When I was a Dibb-"

"When yew were a Dibbun," Zillan interjected, "I remember hearin' o' a certain mousemaid playin' many a prank on a pore infirmary keeper." Seeing her sullen expression, he said, " 'Ow about this: Let me deal with liddle Tiggan here, an' yew take care of Thrit. We'll both give 'em a stern lecture and some sort o' punishment. I don't think th' Abbot needs ta be brought in on this; 'tis just a dispute betwixt pals, right?"

He glanced at the two Dibbuns sternly, and they nodded.

Sister Pearwin scooped up Thrit, intent on giving him a stern scolding, as well as a good scrubbing. "Perhaps you're right, Zillan. But I'll still have to tell th' Abbot about this… disruption."

With that she swept away and began lecturing Thrit before she had even walked two paces.

"Well," Zillan stated, removing Tiggan from his shoulder. She had scooted back there when the Sister had come. When she was set down, she shuffled her paws and glowered. The black-furred otter crouched down on his knees, almost to her level, and asked softly, "Why don't ye tell me what happened, eh? I would like t' know what reason ye had to dump a whole bookful of ink on yer friend."

She scowled, baring sharp little shrew-teeth. "He's no frien' of mine no more; 'e says mean t'ings and pincha my tail! 'E's a stoopid-face!"

He waggled a dark paw at her. "Now that wasn't nice o' either of ye. Both of you disrupt'd th' class, an' that wasn't nice t' the Sister or the other dibbuns. Now, this is wot we're gonna do," he said, voice growing a little more firm. "Ye're both goin' to be punished fer yer actions, an' I want t'see you two apologize afore the day's through, okay?"

Tiggan merely grumbled a response.

He poked her. "Okay?"

She glanced up and met his fiery, unwavering gaze. She dropped her eyes in defeat. "Okay."

He nodded and stood up, satisfied. "Good. Now, run along and find Brother Belth - I want ye to 'elp him pull weeds from his garden fer now. Go on now," he shooed her. When he saw her disappear around the abbey building, he made his way back to the gatehouse in search of his friend.

Zillan Farspark was only one of the two other gatekeepers. The other was a boisterous hare by the name of Serram Satach Scuttwind. He was never out of energy and was as wild and ravenous as a wolf. Not to mention Zillan's closest friend.

Zillan found him in the gatehouse, dusting vigorously and humming some far-flung Long Patrol song. His thistle-brown fur was dull from the offending dust, and his outfit - a pale purple tunic and dark green pantaloons - would need a good shaking. The hare whipped around when Zillan entered, yellow eyes twinkling with their ever-present mirth.

"Ah, Zill! My buddy, my pal! Bring any vittles with ye, wot wot?"

He shook his head, smiling. "O' course not, ye famine-faced marauder. Haven't 'ad my own brekkist yet an' 'tis a while 'til lunch; there was some trouble with Thrit and Tiggan, y'see."

Serram snorted. "Those two? No wonder ye 'aven't eaten yet! C'mon old pal - you an' I are goin' t' the Friar an' getting brekkers!"

He dropped the dust rag like it was made of hot coals, then, grabbing Zillan's paw in an iron grip, bolted out of the gatehouse in a puff of dust, leaving the door swinging.

**~LB~**

The kitchens of Redwall were always active; whether one missed a meal, or just wanted a snack, they could always find something to eat. Today wasn't any different, with kitchen helpers running to and fro, bringing trolleys of this and that; steam and smoke rose from pots and ovens, wreathing around herbs tacked up from wall almost to roof. It was always warm in the kitchens, and the hustle and bustle of hurrying creatures made it even more so.

The Friar - an older but spry squirrel named Vel - was already preparing for lunch and planning out afternoon tea. She paced back and forth, fiddling with her apron tie behind her back (she was a little pudgy), and yelling out at the hapless kitchen staff.

"More cress and onions for the salad! Hey, you! Yes ' _you_ '! Stir that sauce more gently and lower the flame; you're not in a race! Daisy, be a dear and get some more fennel please; good mouse! Now, where is he? Maple!"

A young, male mole hurried over to her on his short legs. He stopped before her and gave a salute. "Hurr, yess marm?"

She eyed him up and down. "Training day, laddie. As assistant cook ye've got ta learn a lot o' things. Today I want you to look o'er th' lunch menu, then go to Sillun and choose some drinks fer lunch; I'm sure the cellerhog will help ye."

"By moiself marm?"

Vel huffed. "Of course! How else will ye learn? Now, get along. And hurry! Oh, look what th' wind dragged in now."

Serram stood there with Zillan (who looked like he was about to keel over). He gave a lanky bow that only a hare could muster, and spouted eloquently, "Why only two starvin' wretches, forgotten an' lacking a feed on this sad and cold morn. And why, wot wot? Because, as th' gallantry of duty calle-"

"Oh, shaddup you fuzz-faced fibber; I know very well that ye two missed breakfast. Again." She gave them a frosty glare, then continued, "So y'know that I'll have yer meals all ready t' go. Now, c'mon." She motioned with her paw for them to follow.

They did, and ended up in a relatively quiet corner of the kitchens. Zillan shuffled his paws like a dibbun caught pinching candied chestnuts, and Serram grinned sheepishly. Friar Vel put their food on a tray of oak-wood, with mock irritance and false grumbling. In truth, she was fond of the two - not that she'd ever let them know. And it was a little annoying how often they missed mealtimes. In fact, the only instances she could recall where they ate with the rest was during a feast. That reminded her …

Vel turned around, hiding a smile, and said with exaggerated annoyance, "Here ye go! Oatmeal with caramelized sugar an' almond flakes, along with a beaker of mildly spicy hotroot broth for Zillan, and a huge helping of warmed up deeper'n'ever pie with some pear tarte for Serram. I also gave ye both some hot rosehip tea with honey t' drink."

Both beasts' eyes sparkled as she handed them the tray. Zillan took it in his brawny, dark-furred arms, and Serram bowed gallantly.

"Thank ye, marm!" they both shouted, then left hurriedly to eat their food.

When they were gone, she left the kitchens, running down the halls energetically. She almost bumped into Maple (whose short arms were full of precariously placed beakers) and shouted at (or past?) him, "Goin' t' speak with the Abbot fer a moment - ye're in charge!" Then she squirreled away.

He blinked. "Whut?"

Vel hurried down the hall with boundless energy, and Redwallers scooted aside quickly when they saw her coming. Every Redwaller had had at least one run-in with the squirrel before she was made Friar, and even a few times after. It wasn't a collision they wished to experience again.

Eventually, she tripped (possibly because of the speed she was going. Or maybe due to her apron coming loose. Who knows?) and hit the floor with a glorious  _smack_!

She rubbed her head ruefully, opening her eyes when she heard a voice chuckle, "Hurrying again, my child? You're not in your youngest seasons anymore, Friar. You need to learn to slow down a bit."

She blinked owlishly and tried to dispel the dizziness. A paw was offered to her and she took it, swaying a little. "Tch, so ye say. If'n I don't git tired, mayhaps I won't get old - I'll be too fast fer time. An' besides; it's not like I'm your age, Abbot Adapis."

The older field mouse, who was Father Abbot of all Redwall Abbey, nodded. He fixed his round spectacles as he spoke. "Aye, Friar. But time catches up with us all in the end." Seeing her face drop, he quickly changed the subject. "But you weren't running down the halls because of time, were you? What brings you dashing like a mad hare late to a feast?" he chuckled.

The Friar's face lit up considerably. "Well, It sorta was about time, Father.  _Eleven days_ ," she said.

Abbot Adapis raised a brow. "Eleven days? Eleven days until what, my dear?"

Vel clapped her paws. "The Feast!"

Realization slammed into the Abbot like the abbey's sandstone walls. Clapping a paw to his brow, he exclaimed, "The Pre-Harvest Feast! How could I have forgotten? And only eleven days!"

The Friar patted his shoulder. "There, there, Father. There are many fine Redwallers to help us; we'll be done in time, you'll see."

He nodded. "Yes, of course. Now, I'll need to name the season, we'll need Foremole Calger to dig us a firepit, Skipper Torka and his crew can help - perhaps with the fishing. You have your kitchen staff …" He continued on as they went down the halls, Vel nodding and offering advice every so often.

The time was fast approaching, and they raced against it by walking down the old red halls at a slow, steady pace.


End file.
